Whatever It Takes
by TheShatteredRose
Summary: De-anon from Hetalia Kink Meme. Prompt: America/England – He'll kill anyone to protect England. "England has been captured and experimented on for his magical abilities. America won't stand for that."


**Title:** Whatever It Takes

**Summary:** De-anon from Hetalia Kink Meme. Prompt: America/England – He'll kill anyone to protect England.

**Pairings:** America/England

**Warnings:** Severe OOCness and violence

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything to do with the Hetalia series

**AN:** Um...this is by far the darkest thing I've ever written. I couldn't pass this prompt by, though, for whatever reason. No flames, yeah?

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"Com'on, guys!" America whined boisterously to the two guards that were standing on either side of a rather inconspicuous looking door with a red flashing light overhead. "It's just me, your beloved hero!"

The two guards shared a look, one of them even having the gall to roll his eyes.

"Sorry, America, sir, but not even you are allowed pass this point," the bulkier of the guards informed him as he adjusted his grip on a rather impressive looking rifle.

America pouted and folded his arms over his chest, clearly put off by the denied entry. He looked at the flashing light in wonder, knowing that beyond that door was an impressive maze of corridors and labs, all ready for developing new and destructive weapons for war.

"What are they doing down there, anyway?"

One guard shifted. "Just a little bit of experimenting, sir, that's all," he replied vaguely.

"Oh, experimenting on what?" America questioned.

They looked rather uncomfortable. "...We can't say, sir."

"How come you guys get to know and I can't?" America pouted again. This was so not fair!

The uncomfortable air just thickened and they shifted on their feet with sudden and jerky movements. "Protocol, sir."

America sighed and adjusted the backpack that was weighing heavily upon his shoulders and back. He really didn't want to have to do this, but they left him with little choice. So...

Two high-pitched cracks rang out and two sets of eyes had widened before glazing over in a glassy sheen. The high-powered weapons they were holding onto clattered uselessly onto the floor before the two guards slumped down to their knees, their backs resting heavily on the wall behind them as the splatter of blood and gray matter stained the wall behind where they once stood.

Adjusting his glasses with one hand, America holstered his 9mm semi-automatic Smith & Wesson into the belt of his pants with the other.

If these two guards had just told him the truth, then maybe he could have spared their lives. But, then again, anyone knowing about how powerful England's magic truly was couldn't afford to live.

He wouldn't chance it.

Squatting down, America searched through the many pockets of the two dead guards, looking for some kind of an item to allow him access through the door. He could easily kick it in, but the noise would be a warning to those inside, giving them time to come up with some sort of a counter measure.

No, he wanted this to be quick and easy. He had no time to deal with any feeble retaliation.

He wanted to get to England before any more damage had been done.

"England's gone!" Canada had cried to him this very morning with tears of fear and concern. "They said some guys in black suits entered his house in the middle of the night and grabbed him! There was blood everywhere! I don't...what do we...? We have no idea where he's been taken!"

America knew, though. He knew where England was and who had taken him.

All the other nations had been informed as well, shaken and scared, all of them worried that they could be targeted as well.

But they won't be. They're not the ones 'they' want. They want England. They want his power, his magic and _him_.

And they have finally gotten their hands on him.

Those damn bastards had wanted to get their filthy, grimy little hands on England for some time now. They wanted his magic to use for their own heinous purposes. They had openly talked about experimenting on him to see how powerful he really was. And America had always, always prevented them from doing so. He had told them time and time again, insisted that England's magic were merely party tricks, something he liked to talk up. There was no proof that England had the magic he claimed.

But, deep in his heart, America knew that England's magic was real. He had seen it. He had felt it. And he had vowed to never let anyone else see it.

How his 'people' managed to get past him to England, he'll never forgive. Himself or them.

He told no one of what he knew, though. No, this was his to deal with. These were _his_ people who had betrayed him and England. This was _his_ duty.

This was _his_ England.

Pulling out a key card from one of the guard's pocket, America wasted no time in opening the door to descend a set of stairs. His hands moved to flip back his bomber jacket from around his waist and hips, pulling out two Smith & Wesson's to wield in both hands. They were fully loaded and ready for what was needed to be done.

Kicking open the first door he came across, America stepped into a small surveillance room that had four people occupying it. Four people turned around, surprise registering on their faces. Three gun shots rang out immediately, which resulted in three bodies falling to the floor in lifeless slumps, the one remaining stood in front of the monitors, pale and wide-eyed.

"Sir?" the middle-aged man spluttered.

America aimed his gun at him. "Where's England?"

The man's fear deepened and he started to tremble. "I...don't know..."

**Bang!**

Useless.

He took one room at a time, disposing of those who were inside one by one. He would not move on until he had suppressed the threat of escapees. It was easy; aim and squeeze the trigger. One shot, one bullet was all that it took to 'suppress' a threat.

Some scientists had begged to be spared, but their words meant nothing. If they were truly deserving of life, they would not have participated in something so...inhuman.

They couldn't be forgiven, not for doing this to England.

"Please, sir! Forgive us!"

"Where _**is**_ England?"

"Please, we were just-!"

**Bang!**

It was such a shame, really. He probably had a family.

With each door America kicked open, with each room he riddled with precise and fatal bullets, he was drawing closer and closer to where England was being held.

He could feel him; he could feel England's very life force. He was here...and suffering.

He was suffering so, so much.

Shifting his bag off his back, America took a moment to unzip it to reveal countless boxes of ammunition. And a rather crude explosive device he had built with the short amount of time he had before coming here.

He didn't feel any sense of satisfaction or joy in what he was doing as he reloaded his guns with an expert touch. Yet, he felt no remorse either. They have captured England. They were, no doubt, torturing him. Using him. Hurting him.

America had vowed to himself a long time ago that England's magic would never be used as a weapon of war. England's magic, his angelic persona, was to be protected, to be cherished. No one had the right, especially not some secret government organisation, to use England, experiment on him against his will.

This organisation deserves to be punished.

They deserve to die.

Reaching the last room, a room with two large doors as the point of entry, America felt his blood boil as he stepped inside. He wasted no time in disposing of these immoral scientists as they tried to scramble away like the disgusting rats they were. Not that he saw any of them.

All he could see was England who was in the centre of the room, held prisoner in a glass cylinder that reached from the ceiling to the floor.

England...

He was dressed in the skimpy design of Angel Britannia's outfit, of which was torn and stained with patches of deep red blood. His wings, once beautiful and majestic were limp and lifeless, feathers a crusty pink of dry blood. His head was bowed forward so his eyes were hidden by his hair that had dulled significantly in colour, his arms held above his head by wires inserted painfully into his skin. His binds of chains and wires were the only things keeping him up upon his feet as small rivers of blood snaked down his far too slender legs to drip into an ever growing pool of blood beneath him.

America tightened his grip on his Smith & Wesson, his knuckles turning a deathly white.

He knew that they would have harmed him, but not this _severely_.

A small noise of clothing rustling gained America's attention, but not his interest. He merely raised his weapon in his left hand and pointed in the direction of the noise. His eyes –as hardened to that of diamonds- stayed glued on England's sickly fragile state.

"Release him."

That wasn't a request.

He squeezed the trigger to give a warning shot and a whimper of fear followed. There was a moment of movement and the sound of random buttons being pressed upon a keyboard. The typing was frantic and clumsy...and taking far too long.

"I-I d-don't know how, sir," a male's voice whimpered. "I mean-"

The man was babbling.

**Bang!**

America released a fatal shot without even turning his gaze away from England. He didn't need to lay his eyes on the worthless and hollow human. Wasn't worth it. The familiar sound of a dead weight hitting the floor immediately followed, though it offered no satisfaction.

America lowered his gun to rest by his side.

He could release England from this torture himself.

Walking up to the glass prison, America placed his hand on the smooth surface. The occupant inside did not stir, however, and America gritted his teeth.

"It'll be alright now, England," he said soothingly, hoping that his precious one can hear him. "I'll take care of you now."

Pushing away from the glass, America walked over to a computer. With eyes narrowed in determination, he surfed through some of the files, mildly aware that the computer program was rather familiar. And it didn't take him very long at all to find what he was looking for, entering the code to the experimenting prison with a few quick taps of the keyboard.

The large cylinder slowly rose up toward the ceiling, some of the wires holding England up snapping and falling loose.

As the prison holding England lifted, America removed his bag from his shoulder and reached inside to press the timer on the homemade bomb. Twenty minutes. Plenty of time to get England out and to safety.

Jumping over a desk, America threw the bag to the side haphazardly, uncaring where it landed, to get to England, as the wires and chains holding him gave way. He reached forward and caught England before he fell to the floor, immediately pulling him close and lowering them both to the ground. England felt so...fragile under his hands, his wounds deep and still bleeding, his body cold and whitish-gray. His injuries were not something America could address with what he had; he needed more medical equipment. They'll have to wait a little longer.

Slipping off his bomber jacket, America wrapped it around England's bruised and bleeding body. He then held England in his arms, warming his cold body with the heat of his own. He felt thinner than when he last remembered. They had starved him. Drastically.

A tremor of hatred mixed with anger rippled through America's body as he lifted England into his arms, holding him like a delicate bride, cradling him against his chest as he began to carry him out. Guilt gnawed at him. How could he have let this happen?

The angel in his arms began to stir, whimpers of pain escaping his lips and tears of suffering rolling down his cheeks. He was so weak, so fragile. "A...merica?"

"I'm here, England," America answered softly, lovingly.

"It...hurts."

"I know," America said around gritted teeth as he began the journey to get them both outside before the bomb blew. England was never the one to admit being in pain of any kind, physical or emotional. And to so willing admit to pain, it meant that he was truly suffering.

"Everything will be ok, I've got you now."

The pain England was in caused his once vibrant eyes to cloud over, his face pale and drawn. Even as he tried to take in his surroundings, his movements were slow and agonising. This was not the England he knew and loved. He was so frail and beaten.

And they had done this to him.

Death was too good for the bastards.

As he stepped over a body of a nameless scientist, England's eyes widened and he curled up tighter in America's arms, seemingly trying to curl away from the images of bloodshed he was seeing.

America kissed his brow. "Close your eyes; I don't want you to see anymore."

England tilted his head back to look up at him. "You...?" he breathed, his green eyes shimmering with tears that were ready to fall. "For me?"

America said nothing in reply as he kept moving forward.

England just stared at him for a long, drawn out moment before he squeezed his eyes shut and he threw his arms around America's neck, pressing his face against the curve of where his neck met his shoulder. He was crying now, sobbing almost hysterically.

America just placed another kiss to his head and continued to move around the countless bodies that littered the area.

Stepping outside, America pulled England closer when he felt him shiver from the cool air of the night. He took the secret path through the outside facility's of the secret army base the lab was located. The army base itself was situated on the outskirts of a sleepy little country town, the town's residence unaware of the true purpose of such a facility.

America wasn't sure of the time, but he was fairly certain that 20 minutes was coming to an end.

Just as he stepped outside the facility's boundaries, a thunderous boom shook the land, sending off alarms and warnings in every direction.

The bomb was crude, but it was effective. Just as he wanted.

Too much evidence. Too much information. It was the only way.

As the glow of the flames leapt and danced through the pitch black smoke that was billowing upwards, America continued to hold England close, the small island nation clinging onto him with shaky hands, his face buried in his shoulder. He was crying still, from his own pain and from the knowledge of what America had to do...for him.

"I'm sorry," England sobbed, his skinny frame shuddering violently. "I'm sorry."

America just held him close. "You didn't do anything wrong," he whispered in reply, kissing a top of his blond head. "You're not to blame for anything."

"I've caused you so much trouble, caused you to carry such terrible burdens!" England cried. "I never wanted-!"

"You would have done the same for me."

England remained silent after his words, though he still continued to cry. He then nodded his head, agreeing to what America had just said. And America knew that. He knew England would have done and had done everything he could to protect him.

"I want to go home," England whispered as he tightened his arms around America's neck. "Please."

Turning his back to the flames, ignoring the wailing sirens of fire and police, America walked away, a small sense of satisfaction appearing with the knowledge that there was now one less threat to deal with.

He'll take England to a place where he'll be safe and will be able to recover from this traumatic ordeal in peace – with America watching over him. He will deal with England's many injuries first before coming up with an excuse to tell the other nations, to put their own minds at ease later. They could afford to wait.

Then, after a couple of weeks, he might take England somewhere on a relaxing vacation. Just the two of them, alone and safe. Maybe to some of the wonderful sights this great land of America had to offer; this country was beautiful, after all.

"I love you," America said as he carried England to his car. "I won't let anyone hurt you ever again."

Never again.

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Sooo...yeah. Review?


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